


What a Difference a Year Makes

by bayoublackjack



Series: Love in London [40]
Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Holmes Brothers, Minor Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes and Experiments, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock's Violin, Sibling Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 22:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5182703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bayoublackjack/pseuds/bayoublackjack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a year since the two Sherlocks left London to go to New York City.  During their time away, the Holmes boys have been hard at work solving cases with the NYPD, but a sudden arrival in the post spurs to return home to England.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What a Difference a Year Makes

Sherlock sat next to the fireplace inside his brother’s brownstone in Brooklyn.  His violin was laid across his lap and he was lazily toying with the frog of his bow.  A lot had happened in a year.

Jamie Moriarty was currently residing in Newgate Prison, though her incarceration was more a result of surrender on her part than a victory on theirs.  The chapter may have ended but the book wasn’t closed.  Of that, Sherlock was certain.

Still, white whale aside, New York City had its advantages.  There was no shortage of murders to solve.  The NYPD was no Scotland Yard and Captain Gregson was no Lestrade, but at the very least, Detective Bell at his worst was more tolerable than Anderson and Sally Donovan had ever been.

The brownstone was admittedly more spacious than his flat on Baker Street, which was good because Sherlock could go days on end without having to suffer the companionship of his older brother.  Every so often Ms. Hudson would insist that they have ‘family’ dinners though.  The only similarity she had in common with Mrs. Hudson was a shared surname.  Otherwise, they were as different as night and day.  For starters, when the American woman wasn’t being a professional muse and linguistics expert, she did in fact tend to the housekeeping, a task that his former landlady was quick to remind wasn’t her responsibility.

As for his brother’s sponsor, Alfredo Llamosa, Sherlock had no interest in his recovery spiel.  His lock picking skills and expertise at stealing cars, however, proved to be of great value during more than one investigation.

All in all, the middle Holmes brother had a stimulatingly satisfying arrangement set up.  And yet, New York City wasn’t London.  Sherlock longed to get back to the city and reacquaint himself.  Breathe it in.  Every quiver of its beating heart.  Now was the time to go home and the envelope that arrived in the post provided just as good of an excuse as any.

Sherlock’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices.  His brother trotted down the stairs, bare-chested and shirt in hand with a leather clad woman following closely behind.  “A pleasure as always,” he told her as he escorted her to the door.  A moment later, he entered the lounge pulling his garish t-shirt over his head.  It was funny how his brother’s sense of style made him nostalgic for John’s tragic jumpers.

“I do hope you didn’t rush your guest off on my account,” Sherlock said, feigning interest in his bow.

“I assure you that inconveniencing myself for your comfort has never been a priority, William.  As it were, Mistress Felicia had a previous engagement.”

“You mean another client.”

“It was a professional obligation that called her away, but alas, it wasn’t her usual services that dictated her presence.  As you should know, one is capable of engaging a dominatrix without thoughts of carnal interludes coming into play,” the elder detective retorted.  “Mistress Felicia and I met through mutual friends and bonded over a shared fascination with medieval torture devices.  Furthermore, I required her assistance for a case involving a murder outside an underground sex club.  With myself serving as a stand-in for the victim, we were able to determine that the wounds found on the corpse couldn’t have formed in the time frame during which the murder took place allowing an innocent man to walk free.  Or crawl free.  Whichever his new dominant allows.”

Sherlock lifted his blue eyes, only regarding his brother with the slightest amount of interest.  “Sorry.  Were you still talking?  You lost me at ‘carnal interludes.’”

Sherlock offered his younger brother a wry smile.  “Droll as always, Billy.”

Sherlock refused to give him the satisfaction of reacting to the insipid nickname, but the look in the other man’s eyes was undeniably screaming ‘checkmate.’  “The post arrived,” he informed his brother, gesturing to the opened envelope with his outstretched bow.

Sherlock snatched up the envelope and turned it over to look at the address.  “You opened it.”

“Yes.”

“It has my name on it.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, brother, we have the same name.”

“Actually, William, we don’t,” the elder detective said sharply.  “Clearly this was addressed to me.”

“It’s from John,” Sherlock insisted.

“It’s undoubtedly from Watson,” his brother objected.  “I’d know her hand anywhere.”  He shoved the envelope in Sherlock’s face.  “Notice the penmanship.  Wide spacing.  The loops of her Ls and Es.  Connecting on the letters.  Light pressure.  Slant to the right.  This is Watson to a T.”

“The stamp is skewed to the right,” Sherlock countered.  “John is left-handed.  He does display a certain degree of ambidexterity, especially with a gun, but his dominant hand wins out during remedial tasks.”

“So it’s from the two of them,” he conceded.  “And what are we to do about it?”

“I’d imagine the intent was for it to be read.  More often than not an assemblage of words conveys a message.”

“Bad news?” Sherlock questioned as he slid the message from its sheath.  “You’re snippier than usual which is really saying something.”

“It would seem our presence is required back home.”

“Mmm,” the other man muttered as he scanned the words written on the paper.  “And so it is.”  He tucked it back inside once he was finished reading and dropped the envelope on the table.  “I suppose it’s time.  It’s a been a full year.”

“I’m sure Lestrade is lost without me.”

“On the contrary, Molly’s correspondence would have me believe that Watson’s collaboration with Scotland Yard is going quite smoothly.  In fact, in our absence, the others seem to have thrived,” Sherlock countered.  “Lestrade’s reputation has rebounded.  The Watsons have reconciled.  Dr Jones is one year sober.  Dr Katdare is embracing motherhood.  And our dearest Molly Hooper is soon to be wed.”

Sherlock didn’t comment.  None of that was news to him.  He had learned as much from his conversations with John.  He was happy for John and Joan.  Even Lestrade.  And Martha and Divya’s states of affair were of little concern to him.  Molly however…

He set his violin aside and steepled his hands in front of his face.  The silence didn’t go unnoticed.

“Regretting your decision, brother?”

The younger man’s bright blue eyes locked on the greyish ones of his elder.  “And which decision would that be?”

“Don’t play coy, William.  It doesn’t suit you.”  He took a seat.  “You told her to move on and so she has, if her impending nuptials are any indication.  And yet, here you sit brooding like a petulant tween that was ditched via social media.”

Sherlock closed his eyes to no avail.  The Holmes brothers possessed the unfortunate ability to get into one another’s heads where all others usually failed.  Though he supposed they had the advantage of decades of practice.  “I phone Mrs. Hudson and told her to expect us.”

“Mmm.  Plane tickets?”

“Booked.  Our flight leaves tomorrow evening.”

“Presumably we won’t be sitting together.”

Sherlock opened his eyes.  “Absolutely not.  Living with you is enough of a chore.  I doubt if either of our sobrieties could survive a transatlantic flight’s worth of brotherly bonding.”

“Good.”  Sherlock jumped to his feet.  “Then I suggest you dust off your best suit, Billy.  We have a wedding to attend.”


End file.
